The Secret Grave
by dolcespoir
Summary: England finally goes to visit France's new restaurant that he's been gloating about for months, only to find that he isn't there. Spain accidentally tells him that France is at home and England decides to find out the reason for his absence.
1. Confusion

_The Secret Grave~_

~ **Rating**: K+

~ **Major** **Characters**: England, France, Prussia, Spain

~ **Warnings**: Violence, Language, Angst/Hurt/Comfort

~ **Plot** **Summary**: England finally goes to visit France's new restaurant that he's been gloating about for months, only to find that he isn't there. Spain accidentally tells him that France is at home and England decides to find out the reason for his absence.

**XxXxX**

_Chapter 1~_

"Okay, fine! I'll go to your bloody restaurant!"

England slapped away France's groping hands and attempted to regain his composure at the World Meeting. The nations were, as usual, not paying any attention to the matter at hand. Even Germany was staring out the window at the summer day, wishing he were out on a stroll with his three mastiffs.

America almost choked in the middle of slurping his extra-large drink and stared at England. The nations that were close enough to hear England's statement stopped their conversations and also turned to look. They all knew that France had been pestering England for months now, in an attempt to show off his _awesome_ (as Prussia would say) cooking skills and hopefully teach him how _real_ food tasted like.

England had, of course, initially expressed shock that the Frenchman had dared to invite him and then ignored his subsequent luring attempts.

Said Frenchman was now grinning in glee and triumph.

"Really, _Angleterre_? Finally, I'll be able to teach you how to cook and spare your poor people from the _horrors_ of your cooking," France replied, exaggerating his words with a dramatic flourish of his hands.

"I can cook FINE! I'm just going so that you stop bothering me about it every day," England replied, bristling from the insults and almost strangling the other man.

By now, the closest nations were congratulating France on his success. America, however, chose to tease England about it.

"You finally caved in, Iggy," he said, with a hearty laugh, "I never thought you'd agree!"

"Yeah, well I was tired of being annoyed by the git. And don't you call me Iggy!"

Thus, the rest of the meeting was happily spent with France shouting out his success for everyone to hear and telling England the food items that he would be trying. Which made England even more nervous, of course. He didn't like the sound of some of the names that France was spewing out.

_What the hell's an escargot, anyway?_

**XxXxX**

It had been a week since that fateful day England had agreed to come to France's restaurant and now he was dreading it. But, of course, a gentleman never goes back on his word and so here England was, getting ready to spend his lunch in France.

With France's description of the restaurant in mind, he had set off looking for it and was now standing (rather lost) in the middle of a quaint little lane just outside of Paris, with a piece of paper that had the address scrawled on it. Around him, people happily strolled along, spending the sunny weekend shopping with family and friends.

England looked carefully at all of the surrounding cafés and boutiques but none matched the restaurant's description or name. He gave up after a while and gathered the courage to ask someone.

"Erm_, excusez-moi! Où est la restaurant 'Belle Amies', s'il vous plaît?_" England hoped that the man he just asked would excuse the terrible pronounciation.

"_Ah, oui! C'est juste coin de la rue._" The man pointed it out and spoke slowly, assuming that England was a tourist.

"_Merci beaucoup_," he replied, and set off in that direction.

He would never admit to France, but England could understand French perfectly and had picked up how to speak it years ago.

At last, he came upon the restaurant and saw that it was a homely little affair with bunches of flowers hanging from the roof in baskets. The sun fell directly on the glass windows and lit up the faces of the people already eating inside. Some chose to bring their food outside to the round little tables shaded by a canopy.

England was surprised. The café didn't fit France's personality. He had come expecting a sprawling five-star restaurant in the middle of Paris with several trained chefs. He could see many locals enjoying their lunch inside. Waiters scurried about with trays of plates and bowls and there was the usual pleasant noise of people chattering away and utensils clinking against china plates.

One of the uniformed waiters came up to him.

"Table for one, sir?" he asked in French.

"Yes, please. I was also wondering if I could see the owner? Francis Bonnefoy?" England used France's human name, "Could you please tell him that Arthur Kirkland came to visit?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but he didn't come in today. He sent two of his friends in his place though."

_He's not here? I wonder who could possibly be friends with that guy..._

England asked the waiter if he could see his friends instead and was led into the spacious kitchen in the back.

As calm as the waiters looked outside the kitchen, it was near chaos inside. A large man in a white apron was directing (rather, yelling) orders at the four other chefs, two of them female, while cutting up a large fish at the speed of light. Vegetables seemed to be flying around from the supplies to the cutting board to the pan and several delicious smells from various spices mingled in the air to make England's stomach grumble.

"They're in here, sir." The waiter pointed to a door away from the main kitchen and he went inside.

The room was smaller than the other one and held a few refrigerators built into the wall, several pantries to hold supplies, a large wooden table in the middle, and two occupants who were sitting at said table and cutting up food.

It was Spain and Prussia.

"You two! What are you doing here?"

"England! Ah, did you come to eat? France told us you finally agreed to visit." Spain laughed.

"You picked the wrong day to come though," Prussia grinned, cutting off England's retort to Spain, "He's not here today."

"Yeah, he's at home with a cold so he asked us to help out around here," Spain said, earning him a warning glance from Prussia.

England noticed Spain shut up immediately and return to cutting up a tomato in front of him.

_Now what was that about_?

"Y-yeah guess his economy's been down lately," Prussia said, uncertainly. "Anyway, he told us that if you come today, we were to send you back because he wants to be here to see you eat."

"What? No way I'm going back after all the trouble I had in finding this place. And besides it's already past my lunch time so I'm eating here whether that bloody frog is here or not!"

Prussia's eyes sparkled with mirth.

"You actually want to eat here, don't you?"

"Why, you...! I just said that I'm only eating here today because I'm hungry! Now, if you'll excuse me..."

England left in a huff with a pink tint on his cheeks, Prussia smirking at his back. Once he was sure the English man had gone, he turned to Spain with a glare.

"You idiot! Why'd you tell him he's at home with a cold?"

"Well, because I _had_ to tell him something or he'd be suspicious. It's not like France left us any instructions on what to do if England showed up."

"Yeah, but it's _England_! He probably checks France's economy every day so he'd know if it's even bad enough to make France have a cold."

Spain was quiet. He hadn't thought of that.

"Do you think he'll go to his house?"

Prussia frowned.

"He'd better not. France is _not_ in the mood to see anyone today, especially England." He thought of something and growled in annoyance. "Although, knowing England, he'd probably head straight there to bother him or something so we're going to follow and make sure there isn't any trouble."

Spain nodded in agreement.

**XxXxX**

England stood outside the restaurant, blinking in the bright sunlight, his stomach pleasantly full. He would never tell France this, but he possibly just had the best lunch of his life. Of course he didn't really understand _what_ he ate, exactly, and had to ask for descriptions from the waiter...but everything was just so perfectly combined with the food melting in his mouth that he didn't really _care_ to know.

_I wonder if I should try making this at home? If only I had the recipe..._

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, England started strolling quite aimlessly down the pretty lane, past the restaurant.

_I wonder what I should do now..._

He suddenly remembered France. Spain and Prussia had said he was down with a cold so this was the perfect time to go annoy him! Gleefully, he thought of how he could tease France about not even being at the restaurant when _he_ was the one who had invited England. Thinking up insults, he directed his route towards the victim's house.

In his excitement, however, he failed to notice the two people who were now stalking him.

**XxXxX**

France's cottage lay peacefully outside of Paris, about a ten minutes drive from his restaurant.

The little lane that led to it veered off the main road and was surrounded by neat flower bushes. The main house was framed by several thick trees and partly hid a stone pathway leading away from the house. The area was quiet and almost isolated, though there were more houses on the main road.

England paid the taxi driver who had brought him there and sauntered down the lane.

He had come here only once when France had offered to host the nations' yearly Christmas party (and promised to be civil), but he noticed that France hadn't changed anything and maintained the place scrupulously. Ringing the doorbell, England prepared himself to be loud and annoying. The chime echoed inside and he listened for footsteps.

Nothing.

Confused with the lack of response, he rang the doorbell again.

_Is he that sick? But his economy wasn't that horrible the last time I checked..._

A bit annoyed now, he thought of the possibility that Spain and Prussia had lied to him. They _were_ acting a bit suspiciously. Sighing, he turned around from the door and went down the porch steps.

A black, iron gate pulled his attention to his right. He remembered that France had kept it locked the day of the Christmas party and was surprised now to see it slightly ajar. He noticed the stone pathway beyond the gate that lead away from the house and decided to follow it in case France was just resting outside.

The little stones that made up the gravelly path massaged his feet. It was a bit narrow and was outlined by hedges of evergreen bushes. It traveled a short distance away from the house, which was now partly hidden by the thick trees, and opened up into a wide grassy area.

England stepped out of the pathway and softly gasped at the beauty of the garden that France had set up here. The rectangular plot of land was artistically outlined with neatly trimmed hedges. Bunches of short flower bushes dotted the landscape and two stone benches stood symmetrically on either side of the garden. A small fountain was positioned in the exact middle, and a steady trickle of water sprung out from the spout.

It seemed like a haven, perfectly preserved in secret. England would never have thought that something like this was part of France's house.

A thin, carved gate stood wide open at the back of the garden, behind the fountain. He walked up to it and saw that it was a smaller extension of the main garden. A brick wall around this area hid it from outside eyes. He peered in and saw that it contained more flower bushes and a rectangular stone slab buried into the soil in the middle of the area.

England's eyes widened as he realized that the slab was a tombstone.

_A grave! Why does France...? And whose...?_

His mind sputtered as he tried to think of possible explanations and he moved to inspect the carved letters on the headstone. Before he could, however, a soft voice from his right interrupted his approach.

It was France.

_End Chapter 1~_

**XxXxX**

**Translations**

1. Angleterre (French) :: England

2. Escargot (French) :: type of French food that consists of snails.

3. Excusez-moi! Où est la restaurant 'Belle Amies', s'il vous plaît? (French) :: Excuse me! Where is the restaurant, 'Good Friends', if you please?

4. Ah, oui! C'est juste coin de la rue (French) :: Ah, yes! It's just around the corner.

5. Merci beaucoup! (French) :: Thank you very much!

**Author Notes**

Wee~ My first multichapter fanfic! By the way, if you like GerIta, you should go read my first fanfic that I recently submitted (shameless advertising...) Anyway, sort of a cliffhanger here. Why does France have a tombstone? Did he murder someone and bury them here? Questions...

The next chapter will be up probably tomorrow. Until then, reviews will be appreciated!

_With Pasta and Love, dolcespoir~_


	2. Revelation

_A/N:_ _Thank you for all the reviews, alerts, and faves for this story! Never thought there'd be so many!_

**XxXxX**

_Chapter 2~_

Prussia sighed in relief as he saw England turn back from France's house after getting no response. "Well at least he didn't go through the gate," he said, turning away to face the main road.

"Prussia! You jinxed it!"

He whirled back at Spain's worried tone and swore furiously when he saw England enter the gate.

_How the hell are we supposed to stop him now?_

The pair cautiously followed the figure a good fifteen feet behind to avoid detection and watched as he admired the garden. Prussia clenched his hands as England approached the second gate.

"What do we do now?" Spain asked in an anxious whisper.

Prussia shrugged. "We can't do anything. If he's found out this far, then it wouldn't hurt him to know what France has been going through for centuries."

"But what if France...?" Spain trailed off on his question. Prussia only shook his head.

"England has to understand. I doubt France'll lose his head, but we'll only interfere if he does." They could now hear strains of a familiar tune in the air and he closed his eyes at France's voice.

_England might help him finally break down..._

**XxXxX**

France was kneeling on the ground in front of the flower bushes and his back was to England. The latter stood transfixed as the voice he had heard transformed into a quiet song.

The tune was in French and had a melancholy tone, almost like a lullaby. He closed his eyes, lulled by the song's sweet melody, as if he was being sung to sleep. France's usually rowdy, loud voice was gentle, almost loving. He had never heard him sound like that and found it pleasant.

The peaceful atmosphere was short-lived, however, as the song broke off abruptly, choked into silence.

England opened his eyes and flinched. France had stood up from his kneeling position and was now staring at him. Quite at a loss, England smiled weakly and became uncomfortably aware that he was interrupting some sort of sacred ritual.

"Erm, I-I'll just -" He trailed off as he noticed that France was tense and still. His blue eyes had darkened and it was impossible to read the emotion behind them. The flowers he had been picking lay in a heap on the ground and he made no move to pick them up again.

"...France?"

France suddenly leapt at England and, in his shock, the latter had no time to react.

A guttural cry emerged from his lips as he slammed England onto the ground and pinned his arms strongly. England thanked the Gods that he had landed on soil rather than the cemented pathway leading to the grave, mere feet from his head. He looked up into France's face with wide, startled eyes, struggling against him, and was blown away by the pure anger that dominated his features. His mouth was contorted into a snarl and England could only stare at the murderous hatred in his eyes.

_Never_ had France acted like this. Even during _war_, he acted calmer than this.

"How _dare_ you come here, bastard?"

He snapped out of his thoughts at France's hoarse whisper. He had spoken in French and England could just barely understand him through his gritted teeth. The difference between his voice when he was singing and his furious tone now rendered England speechless.

"You _dare_ come to such a sacred place, when...when – you _killed_ her, son of a bitch!" He was not shouting, despite his harsh words, but England heard venom in each whispered word. France dug his nails sharply into his victim's forearms, making him wince in pain.

_Damn, this is bad. I have to get out of here..._

"Wh-what are you talking about?" he managed to say, his voice sounding pathetic in his ears. He spoke in English, while the other continued in his own language.

France let out a short laugh that sounded more like a bark. He removed the pressure on England and let him sit up. "Of course you wouldn't remember, would you? To you, it was another one of your games," his voice dropped menacingly, "Tell me, _England_, don't you remember the smoke that you caused, the blood, the screams, the pain?"

Before England could react, France hit him across the face with the back of his right hand. The ring he was wearing tore open England's cheek and left a bloody trail.

"What the hell, France?" he shouted back at the figure now standing in front of him, his face exploding with pain. He tried to stand up, now that France had let him go, only for the latter to kick him hard in the stomach. He crashed to his knees, his breath knocked out of him, gasping and clutching his stomach.

He knew better than to speak again and instead looked for a way to escape but the injuries were making him feel dizzy and lose focus.

Meanwhile, France had walked back over to the grave and knelt down on one knee. He fingered the gold locket hanging from the grave and kissed it tenderly.

_Je vous manque, ma cherie Jeanne._

England's suspicion about the grave was confirmed when he saw France kiss the locket. In his mind, he could see the same locket, hanging from the neck of a short, blonde girl.

He could now smell the smoke that France was talking about and was suddenly thrust into a memory from centuries ago.

_Silence reigned in the small city and only the shuffling of clothes and the impatient footsteps of the soldiers could be heard. The prison door opened with a clang and spit out a young girl from its depths. She wore heavy male clothing, clothed in breeches and a plain tunic, her hair chopped to her ears. She was led into the cobbled streets by two English soldiers, forced to walk towards her death._

_Townspeople were scattered around, acting as her last companions. Many cried openly and offered whispered prayers as she passed by them. A young woman threw a small bouquet of flowers at her feet. One of the soldiers sniffed in annoyance as she stooped to pick it up._

_She was led up to a thick wooden post constructed onto a platform and her hands were tied behind her to the post. In her last moments, she desperately shouted for a crucifix, for a last prayer. The priest from the local church complied with her last wish and held it up in front of her face. She closed her eyes, her lips moving in silence, her body perfectly still, even as flames devoured her body._

_His throat constricted with the smoke that choked the air out of him and..._

England yelped as cold fingers wrapped around his neck, choking him as the smoke did all those years ago. He tried to pry the fingers away, but France shook him hard, making him even dizzier.

"Remembered, have you?" France looked at him, smiling gruesomely, "remembered what you did to her? To my people?" He laughed, a crazed look in his eyes.

"You burned her three times, remember? To be thorough...Her ashes were to be thrown in the Seine." His smile turned triumphant. "You don't know, do you? You didn't know that the ashes weren't even hers!" He cackled with glee, the fury in his eyes conflicting with the grin. "I took her ashes safely away under your soldiers' very noses. Took back what rightfully belonged to her family and replaced it with mere coal ashes."

England hadn't made a sound during France's revelation, trying not to provoke him any further, but France's grip on his neck only tightened. England gasped, his breath catching, clawing desperately at the other's hands.

"S-stop," he managed to croak out pitifully. He couldn't think of anything else to say. What _could_ he say? Even if his pride let him apologize for what he had done, France would laugh at his feeble attempt to save himself and injure him even more. But fighting back would incite France to the point where he would lose control and it would be like signing his death sentence.

However, France wasn't even listening to him anymore. His eyes lost focus, his grip still tightened around England's neck however, and he looked past his victim as if seeing something else.

Tears formed under his eyelashes and he murmured rapidly in French, still staring straight ahead.

"_Jeanne?... Jeanne, je suis désolé. Je ne pouvais pas vous protéger... Pardonnez-moi s'il vous plaît... _"

England looked up while attempting to draw shaky breaths, now pinching and slapping France's hand to make him let go, and saw his blue eyes widen and then close, tears spilling out.

His grip tightened yet again and England's view blackened. Bright spots of light danced around in his vision and he gasped for what little breath he could take in, wheezing and coughing.

"_Pardonnez-moi, Jeanne, s'il vous plaît_ ..._Je le vaincrai, je promets..._ "

He could hear a buzzing in his ears and tried to lift his heavy arms but they wouldn't move.

"_Je ne lui permettrai pas de vous faire mal, je promets..._"

His brain registered that France was saying something, mumbling rapidly, his speech broken by sobs. And then he heard strange crunching noises and voices that sounded ridiculously high pitched. The noises all blended together, unbearably loud in his ears, and his lungs were burning with the lack of oxygen.

He couldn't take it anymore. He pleaded for someone to make this end. He felt himself being shaken, then a dull thump on his head.

Then, silence.

**XxXxX**

They saw France walk towards the grave. Both Prussia and Spain were now hiding behind the fountain, away from France's view. They could barely see where England was and could only tell what was happening by the sounds of the struggle.

"Can you see what he's doing?"

The other hissed in disapproval as England yelled out. "I don't know. I just saw France kiss the locket and then tackle England."

They both heard France's voice speaking to England, but couldn't hear exactly what he was saying.

"Why is it so quiet now?"

"How the hell would I know, Spain?" Prussia snapped at his friend, tensed, "I can't even see what's going on. But then if we interfere, France might turn on us too, and I'd rather not get in a fight with him in this state and -"

They both froze as they heard the strangled gasps and unmistakable sounds of someone being choked.

"_Mierda..."_

Prussia leapt up, Spain right behind him, and their footsteps crunched down on the stones littered around the garden.

"France!"

Prussia's eyes widened at the sight before him. France had his hands tightly around the England's neck and both of them were kneeling. Prussia could see England was almost limp, held up only by France, but was still struggling to remove the grip around his neck. The Frenchman was shaking badly and broken sobs escaped his mouth. He was murmuring something rapidly and didn't notice their arrival.

Spain rushed up to them and jerked France's hands away roughly, gripping them tightly. As soon as he let go, England crumpled to the ground, finally losing consciousness.

France had again come to his full senses and had pushed Spain back, making him stumble against the rough ground. Before Prussia could do anything, he aimed a punch at Spain's face. Spain dodged, taking the opportunity to grab France's arms and make him lose his balance.

France, however, slammed into Spain with the increased momentum and the latter fell back against the bushes.

He growled in annoyance as Prussia now grabbed him from behind and held down his arms. He kicked his legs backwards into the other's as retaliation but Prussia refused to let go.

"Damn it France, stop fighting us!" he said, grunting in pain. France simply yelled in frustration and struggled violently against Prussia's grip until the latter forced his friend down and pinned him against the ground.

From this angle, Prussia could clearly see France's enraged face, his mouth in a snarl, conflicting with the immense amount of sadness in his eyes and tears streaming down his cheeks.

Tears?

Prussia gaped at his friend, taking in the sight.

_He's crying! He finally..._

"France...don't you realize it? You're...crying," Prussia whispered. The blond Nation stopped struggling suddenly and stared back in shock as he registered what his friend was saying. He touched the tears on his cheeks and felt its wetness, his eyes widening at the realization.

"You did it, _mi amigo_...you finally cried for her," Spain said from behind them, getting back up from where he had fallen.

France didn't respond and instead stared down at his hands, at the tears falling freely onto them. Prussia took it as a cue to remove France from England's presence and helped him up carefully, with no resistance from the other. Quietly he motioned over to Spain and then to England, behind France's back. Spain nodded at his instructions and Prussia left, with France stumbling along, still in a daze and lost in his thoughts.

Spain sighed as he watched them go and finally turned to the blond man passed out on the ground.

"Really, _Inglaterra_...you should've done this sooner."

**XxXxX**

_Where am I?_

He could feel himself lying on soft material.

_Wasn't...wasn't I being strangled?_

His senses returned to him and he immediately tensed up, waiting for another attack. When he didn't feel anything, he opened his eyes to look at his surroundings. He was in an ornately decorated room, with light tan walls and little trinkets placed artistically around. He was lying on a white leather couch with a soft pillow under his head.

He sat up and was hit with a sudden pain around his abdomen, making him gasp and clutch at his aching stomach. Immediately, a pair of hands went around his shoulders and held him until the pain subsided. He looked up, recovering a little, into a pair of bright green eyes.

"S-spain? What…where am I?" his voice sounding weak.

"At France's house," Spain replied, cheerful despite the situation, "Do you remember what happened, England?"

"Erm, well…France attacked me because…" he looked away, not wanting to tell Spain the reason for the Frenchman's violence.

Spain sighed. "Well this all happened because you came to his house, first of all. Did you figure out what day it is today?" he looked at England and moved on without waiting for an answer, "You _really _picked a bad day to come."

_Oh. So he knows why France attacked me…_

Spain moved away and sat down on the loveseat opposite to England. "I suppose you want an explanation?"

England frowned. He already knew what happened. "Well, no I already know why he acted that way. I'm just surprised that he held this grudge for so long. I mean he acts normally every other day when he sees me so why did he lose it today?"

"Because, as a Nation, his emotions are what his people are feeling. There's an annual ceremony for her in Rouen today, you know, where she died. A memorial."

"Okay, but I doubt his people are still violently angry about that."

"_They_ aren't, but _Francis_ is." Seeing England's confused face, he continued. "I'll just tell you from the beginning then."

"Before her death, as you know, Jeanne was kept in a prison in Rouen. France was allowed to visit her only once. That one time, France had totally broken down and started crying in front of her, mumbling about how he couldn't do anything to protect her. And she had said nothing to him, just listened quietly. France told us, Prussia and me, that when he looked at her face, she looked disgusted and furious. He had never seen her that way before. And then, she simply turned her back on him and said that she wouldn't look at him if he acted so pitiful."

"She said that she had fought for and would die for a strong and proud Nation, not for one that was babbling nonsense at her feet."

England was shocked at this revelation. He was expecting something more of a tender parting. Spain continued, now looking up at the ceiling.

"France asked her then if a lover was not allowed to grieve for a lost love, if a Nation was not allowed to cry over his lost child."

Spain sighed and looked at England again.

"She told him that yes, a lover and a Nation could grieve, but a military commander could not afford to weep over every lost soldier unless he wants to lose the war. She said that she had worked hard to keep her country fighting and defending relentlessly. France had to suppress his human side and have only one goal in front of him. He couldn't let Francis take over. She pretty much commanded him to never to shed a tear, never to grieve for her until his enemy, his rival, was completely defeated."

"Her wish was made into a pact between her and France and he has _never_ been able to cry or mourn her death. It was physically impossible for him to. He had always been depressed on this day but then he was always back to normal the next day, which is why no one's ever noticed anything."

Spain ended his story with another glance up to the ceiling. England just stared back, his mind taking in all of the information. He didn't know how to react. Until now, he had never thought that France could have such a secret hidden away in his heart. He always looked so carefree and acted like a pervert who didn't really love anybody. But now, he realized that...

That France could be capable of true love. He had a heart that had been broken. And England had broken it.

"But he did defeat me, didn't he? Back then, I wasn't able to take over France. His people drove my soldiers away. So why not after that? The pact should've been fulfilled," England said, desperately, feeling like a monster.

_After all this time...it's useless to regret now._

Spain shook his head.

"His _people_ had defeated you. _France_ had defeated England. But _Francis_ never had a chance to grieve or take revenge. England had been France's enemy, but you specifically, as Arthur, were Francis' enemy. So today, for the first time, he let out his anger that he had been holding in for centuries. And the pact was broken. He had defeated you, his rival, and he was able to cry for her."

Spain got up from his seat as he finished saying this and moved toward the spiral staircase leading upstairs, giving England time to think.

_So now what? I can't bloody apologize for a war or for ki...taking Jeanne away from him._ _Hell, I didn't even decide that, the church did. France won't even listen to me now._

"Just wait here for a minute, will you? I'll check up on France," Spain said, starting up the stairs.

England nodded sullenly, not bothering to look up.

_He won't ever forgive me for that now..._

_End Chapter 2~_

**XxXxX**

**Translations**

1. Je vous manque, ma cherie Jeanne (French) :: I miss you, my dear Jeanne

2. Jeanne, je suis désolé. Je ne pouvais pas vous protéger... Pardonnez-moi s'il vous plaît... (French) :: Jeanne, I'm sorry. I couldn't protect you...Please forgive me...

3. Pardonnez-moi, Jeanne, s'il vous plaît ...Je le vaincrai, je promets...(French) :: Forgive me, Jeanne, please...I'll defeat him, I promise...

4. Je ne lui permettrai pas de vous faire mal, je promets... (French) :: I won't let him hurt you anymore, I promise...

5. Mierda (Spanish) :: Shit

6. Mi amigo (Spanish) :: My friend

6. Inglaterra (Spanish) :: England

**Author Notes**

Gahh, it seriously feels like this chapter is rushed! Especially the part where Spain and Prussia come in near the end. I really hope everybody's in character? So now you know, it's Jeanne d'Arc's grave that France has in that garden. There's nothing underneath the headstone, of course, but France just creates a special place for her and sets up sort of a haven for her soul...

There isn't much history to be explained here:

* Jeanne died on May 30th. Yes, she did ask for a crucifix and a local priest held up a huge one in front of her face as she was burning. You can see paintings of that scene if you google it.

* She was burned three times, reducing her to ashes, before being thrown into the Seine River. No, no one actually replaced her ashes with coal and took her real ones (although you never know!).

* People in Rouen throw flower bouquets into the Seine on that day as a memorial.

One more chapter left that's probably going to be up by tomorrow. Reviews/criticisms as always because they're much appreciated!

_With Pasta and Love, dolcespoir~_


	3. Completion

_* This chapter continues exactly after the previous one. If you don't remember, just go back and read the last part again._

**XxXxX**

_Chapter 3~_

"How is he?" Spain asked the figure standing on the landing of the staircase. Prussia shook his head and cursed quietly.

"I don't know, he just keeps staring up at the ceiling and won't respond to anything I ask him. How's England?"

Spain shrugged. "He's still injured in his stomach and I think he's shocked about all this," he gestured vaguely, "I told him our theory on why France lost it and he seemed...apologetic."

Prussia raised his eyebrows.

_Bit too late for that..._

He led Spain down the hallway and into the bedroom. Inside, Spain saw France sprawled on top of the bedcovers, his hands fisted over his eyes. They could tell he'd been crying again but didn't comment on it.

"Is England downstairs?" France acknowledged their presence by a question. He didn't remove his hands from his eyes and made no movement. Spain tensed and looked to Prussia, who just stared back at him in confusion.

_Oh Dios, what if he starts attacking him again?_

"Uhh, no he isn't. Why do you ask?"

France chuckled and removed his hands from his face, revealing eyes red from tears. "You always were a bad liar, _Espagne_." He looked up to see his two friends staring at him from the doorway. "What, don't you trust me? I'm not going to attack him again, if that's what you're thinking. I just wanted to know if he – how's he's feeling..." he trailed off, quietly, looking away.

The other two were shocked at the quick change of emotions. Where had all the anger gone?

"...Yeah, he's downstairs," Spain said, cautiously.

France nodded and stood up from the bed, wobbling a little. Prussia was there instantly to prevent him from falling but France only waved him off and walked out of his room.

**XxXxX**

England watched as Spain climbed up the staircase. He hoped that France wouldn't come down and see him lying on the sofa. After what had happened, he didn't think he would be welcome in his house.

His heart panged at the thought that their relationship had probably broken down beyond repair.

Why was he upset about that? He had always hated France, had he not? The Frenchman was annoying to no extent, teasing endlessly and groping everyone like a pervert.

_I wouldn't miss him, right?_

But, deep in his heart, he knew he would. The lighthearted expression France always had, the way they fought at World Meetings, how they would purposely do things to annoy each other...

But that was on the surface, pretenses kept up only for the sake of tradition. After all, they had _always_ teased each other and bickered. The relationship between them had been broken many times because of wars, especially during the long hundred some years, but they had always come back, forgiving, and being forgiven.

Because they were Nations. Because they had that one thing in common, if nothing else.

Because they could both feel the pain and happiness of their people.

Because they had endured through many centuries together. In peace, war, and everything in between, they had always been at each other's sides from the day they had met.

Because for people who live almost forever, grudges were meaningless.

Because underneath it all, even if they would die than admit it, they were friends.

But...

England had finally broken that spell. He couldn't be forgiven any longer. He had cruelly taken the one person that France had loved with his whole heart.

_That's it then, isn't it? I deserved this..._

England clenched his hands and stood up shakily on his feet. His wounds had healed already and he refused to stay longer at France's house.

_I can't be forgiven yet again. It's too much to ask of him._

His feet led him quickly to the front door and he stepped out into the late afternoon warmth. He went down the porch steps, past the flower bushes, and stopped abruptly. He stared at the black gate to his right...and felt a distinct urge to go in. He stepped closer. The feeling grew more intense.

And suddenly, he creaked open the gate and was once again faced with the stony pathway. He took a hesitant step forward, crunching down on the gravel. And then another one. Another. And his pace increased.

_What am I doing? Why am I going back? France will kill me if he sees me here again!_

Yet he couldn't stop. He wanted to – wanted to see _her_ again. Past the fountain, the soft grass, through the second gate and...there it was.

He stepped closer. And fell to his knees in front of _her_. His fingers gently touched the smooth stone, sliding over the cool surface. And he could finally read what the headstone said:

_Vous vivez dans mon coeur, ma mémoire_

_Et vivra éternellement_

_Ma chérie Jeanne_

He traced over the simple, but heartfelt words with his fingertips and closed his eyes, tears seeping out from the corners.

_Why am I crying?_

But there was no need for explanations. Because he felt content to just kneel there, tears streaming down his cheeks, without reason. And suddenly he knew exactly what to do.

He stood back up again and walked over to where France had dropped the flowers he was picking. He gathered them up in his arms, smelling their fresh beauty, and placed them gently at the foot of the grave. He walked back over to the flower bushes and picked a single pink flower, delicate in his hands.

He added this flower next to France's pile, making sure it was separately placed, and knelt down again, offering a whispered prayer. He felt lighter as he wiped the wetness away from his face and looked down at the epitaph again. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair.

It felt like he was being forgiven.

**XxXxX**

"_Angleterre_?" France looked around his living room, confused. Spain had said he was downstairs, but he could see no sign of the blond man.

"What's wrong?" The other two had followed him downstairs.

"He's not here."

Spain frowned. "But he was right there on the couch! Where would he go?"

Prussia shrugged. "Maybe he just went home. He didn't really have the best day, and I don't think he wanted to confront you, France."

The Frenchman tried to hide his disappointment. He felt guilty for hurting England, even though he couldn't help feeling that the other had deserved it.

_I guess he'll never trust me again, will he?_

On a whim, he went to the front door and looked outside. He could see the black gate was closed, with no sign of England anywhere. He sighed. A light breeze weaved through his blond curls. And suddenly, he knew...

He dashed down the porch steps, ignoring the surprised cries from his friends, and entered through the gate towards his haven.

_He's there, isn't he? I can feel it..._

He got closer, hurrying past the graveled path and the fountain, then through the second gate.

"Engla...?"

His eyes widened.

He saw the headstone, with the epitaph he had carved himself.

He took in the golden, heart-shaped locket that he had gifted Jeanne with.

He watched as the breeze gently disturbed the delicate petals of the flowers he had picked for Jeanne. They were placed in a neat pile in front of the headstone.

And then, he finally saw one single pink flower, separate from the rest, that didn't match any of the flowers that France had picked.

He knelt down and fingered that lone flower, gazing at it, overwhelmed with so many emotions that he didn't bother to identify. _He_ had come here, despite France's violence. He had placed the flowers here because he had wanted to, maybe even offered her a prayer.

_He's trying to apologize, isn't he?_

He smiled down at the headstone, knowing that she was happy.

_Merci._

**XxXxX**

Sunlight streamed through the windows, lighting up the rooms of the house. It fell on the face of a sleeping blond man, who yawned a little before opening his green eyes. He brushed away strands of his hair that fell over his face and looked up at the ceiling, breathing peacefully. After a few minutes, he got up drowsily and made his bed, stuffing his feet into the warm slippers by the bathroom door.

Fifteen minutes passed and he climbed down the stairs, hair neatly brushed and face wide-awake.

Getting a glass of water from the kitchen, he made his way to the front door and picked up the newspaper on the front step. A warm breeze rustled the plants around his house and he listened to the early morning quietness for a few minutes before closing the front door and settling comfortably on the couch. He flipped through several pages of the newspaper and read through several articles concerning his country affairs and politics.

He was just about to close the newspaper and get up to make some breakfast tea when he noticed something attached to the last page. It was a small sheet of paper, folded in half and taped to the back of the newspaper. On it was a single name.

_Francis._

The man's eyes widened at seeing the name and he almost dropped the newspaper. So far he had been trying hard to forget yesterday's events and move on but this, he couldn't ignore this.

He detached the sheet of paper with trembling fingers and opened it up.

_Is he angry that I went back there to see her again? Or about touching the flowers that he had picked?_

He saw the pretty handwriting that he had always admired in the other man.

_Arthur_

_Thank you f__or what you did. __For mourning her and for the flowers._

_I have a request of you. It may be too much to ask after what happened, but I really wish that you can fulfill it. __Can we possibly go back to how we were before? Teasing and yelling at meetings and annoying each other?_

_I would like you to know that I never meant to hurt you._

_J'espère que vous me pardonnez._

He felt a lump in his throat as he read the last sentences. He read it through again. And then a third time. And felt hot tears stinging his eyes. But he held them back and admonished himself.

_Damn, I've gone soft._

He rubbed at his eyes and stood up, the letter still in his hands. He walked out of the living room, past his kitchen, and into a dark hallway. He rarely ever visited here nowadays.

He flicked on a light in the window-less storage room and looked around nostalgically at all of the relics he had preserved in here. His old battered uniforms, pictures and paintings he had of years past, even old treasure chests holding the memories of his wild, sea-faring days.

He knelt down in front of a cardboard box and opened the dusty covers. Inside were stacks of ancient, yellowed papers and letters, almost disintegrated. He didn't know why he kept them but he couldn't bear throw his history away.

He brushed off the layer of dust coating the letters, his nose tickling at the disturbed particles, and placed the newest part of his memories inside. The crisp, white page contrasted sharply with the withered ones below it, and he read it one last time.

_Bloody frog...of course I forgive you._

He closed the covers of the box and left the room.

Back in his kitchen, he wandered around, trying to concentrate on making breakfast. After burning his toast for the second time though, he thought it best to give up. He leaned against the countertop and gazed out the window.

_Maybe I should just go visit France's restaurant again...He'll invite me again anyway, so it'd be best to just get it over with._

He thought of seeing the Frenchman's smile again, and could almost hear his voice throwing him a greeting. He could hear himself talking back to the other, both of them now yelling over something insignificant.

Because that's how they should be.

Sworn enemies. Sworn friends.

He felt his stomach grumble, as if agreeing with the idea of eating at the restaurant.

_Yes, eating with the git sounds perfect right now_, he mused, smiling to himself. He chuckled at that thought. _I think I might be going crazy._

_End Chapter 3~_

**Xx La Fin xX**

**Translations**

1. Dios (Spanish) :: God

2. Espagne (French) :: Spain

3. Vous vivez dans mon coeur, ma mémoire / Et vivra éternellement / _Ma chérie Jeanne_ (French) :: You live in my heart, my memory / And will live for evermore / My darling Jeanne

4. Angleterre (French) :: England

5. Merci (French) :: Thank you

6. J'espère que vous me pardonnez (French) :: I hope that you forgive me

**Author Notes**

Well that's the end of that! Really anxious to know what people thought of that ending. Is it too fluffy considering how France had acted before? I couldn't bear to have a sad ending though, those two _need_ to be happy!

Also, I mentioned England's wounds healing because as a Nation his body works differently. In my headcanon, Nations can't die unless their people are obliterated somehow or their countries are destroyed, but even then there's the case of Prussia. And wounds, even fatal ones, heal very quickly.

Please let me know what you think in the reviews and thank you for reading until the end!

_With Pasta and Love, dolcespoir~_


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